The Shadow Box(59)

Tom exchanged a glance with Mariana, who nodded to him—she had heard what Gwen was saying, and he was sure she’d tell the doctor. He gazed at Gwen—so slight and seemingly frail but with the strength to survive overnight on a raft in the cold ocean—and wondered if she would ever truly come back from the experience, whether the trauma would lock her in a world of unreality forever.

It was hard for him to leave her, but he knew she was in good hands. He walked out of the hospital, took deep breaths of fresh air, prayed the best he could for Gwen to be okay, for her to survive this the way she had survived the boat explosion and that long night alone at sea.





32





CLAIRE


My father used to say I could do anything. I could run as fast as the boys at Hubbard’s Point, hit a baseball farther, swim out to the big rock without even breathing hard. My parents never tried to urge me into any field of study; when other working-class parents like mine wanted their kids to get practical jobs with regular hours, steady income, and health insurance, my parents wanted me to follow my dreams. That was all they ever asked of me.

I am doing it right now—following my dreams: of life, safety, and escape. It all began with a reverie of truth, that once I learned what happened twenty-five years ago, I knew I couldn’t keep my husband’s secret anymore.

On the seventh night, I left the cabin. I still felt weak, and I knew I needed to get more food than I’d been able to forage. The moon was out, which made it both easier to find my way and treacherous in terms of who might see me. A warm wind blew up from the cove, rustling the branches overhead.

My sanctuary was about midway between Hubbard’s Point and Catamount Bluff, and my heart was pulling me home to the Point—I wanted to see Jackie, have her shelter me. But I wasn’t at all sure that I could trust the men in her family, Tom and Conor. Instead, I went the opposite way, toward the Bluff. Griffin would never expect it.

I cut through the woods, along a narrow track. The leaves had popped in the last few days, and the moon cast dappled light on the ground. I heard a distant cry—the big cat? It sounded like a child sobbing, but then it dissipated, and I chalked it up to wind whistling through the trees. A pair of barred owls called in the distance. I wondered if the golden eyes of the mountain lion were tracking me. The thought made me hurry along.

All the houses on Catamount Bluff were dark. I hid in the marsh grass, watching. I thought I saw someone move behind a curtain at the Lockwoods’ imposing house, but there were no lights on. It must have been the breeze through the open window. I stared at it for a long time, remembering the venom I’d heard in Leonora’s voice the last time we talked.

Other than that rippling curtain, there was no movement, but I knew the security guard would be doing his twice-hourly patrols. I waited for the first pass—a slow cruise up the road from the gate to our house. I tried to see who was driving, but the car was too far away. It circled our turnaround and returned in the direction of the guard shack at the main road.

That gave me half an hour before the car came back.

I skirted our house, staying behind the boulders that dotted our yard from the woods to the beach. My heart was pounding when I drew parallel to my studio. This was the most dangerous part—I’d have to run about twenty yards across the moonlit lawn. Without my watch or cell phone, I could only estimate the time, and I guessed it was nearly midnight. Griffin usually went to bed early and slept soundly; the boys were night owls, but the lights in their old bedrooms were off, and in any case, I couldn’t imagine why they would be staying at our house.

I took a deep breath and more limped than ran across the wide expanse, slipping behind my studio on the seaward side. I had left the house without my keys, but I kept one hidden under a stone angel in the herb garden. My hand shook as I slipped the key into the lock.

As soon as I stepped inside, my shoulders dropped with relief. Every inch of this building was me. I smelled paint, solvent, wood glue, seaweed, channeled whelk and mussel shells, driftwood covered with barnacles. The large north windows did not face the moon, but the ambient cool-blue moonlight was enough for me to see.

First thing, I went over to the bookcase. The shelves were full of art books, beautiful editions by American, French, Italian, and German publishers. My collection of nature volumes took up half the space—lots of old books by favorites such as Louis Agassiz Fuertes, William Hamilton Gibson, and Henry David Thoreau. I took down a volume I had hollowed out—a law book, irony intended—and was relieved to see the packet of materials was still there.

I grabbed my satchel, stuffed it with fruit and cheese from the small refrigerator, a can of walnuts, a box of wheat crackers, and a jar of almond butter. I went to the medicine cabinet in the bathroom, grabbed some first-aid supplies. And I wrapped the packet of the journal and letters in a soft cloth and put them into the bag along with a pen and a fresh notebook.

I thought of my phone, in the cup holder of my car in the garage. I wondered if the police had impounded the car as evidence, part of the crime scene. I had a landline—it was an old wall phone, right next to the cabinet that held my supplies. But who would I call? Calling 911 would defeat the purpose—town cops would come, possibly Ben Markham, certainly officers on Griffin’s side.

Almost ready to leave, I walked over to my worktable and gazed at my work in progress. I had built the frame, cut sections of thin, fine balsa wood to create the beginnings of the great house. Because it was a commissioned work, I had never intended to display it in my show. I checked between the back of the frame and the false bottom, made sure that the letter was still there. It was.